


Guys' Knight Out

by Mertiya



Category: Love Simon (2018), Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Alternate Universe - Camelot, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Epistolary, Internalized Homophobia, It's mostly early Christianity in a pretty loose kind of way, LGBTQ Themes, Lots of real-world references, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religious Content, Religious LGBTQ character, Slurs, Some references to Judaism, Sort of given that the period in question is rather wibbly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-07 09:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: An old crone declares that one of the knights of the round table is a sinner--he loves men.  Since Simonus was not at dinner during the declaration, his world is suddenly overturned, because it means he's not the only one.  He's soon drawn into a romance with the mysterious other knight via letters and exchange of poems.  But nothing lasts forever.IE, the Camelot AU that no one asked for.





	1. The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this isn't explicitly a crossover with any extant mythos--I'm taking bits and pieces from Arthurian mythos and various retellings. The TV show Merlin gets one or two nods, but it's by no means a full crossover. Also this is not a historical AU; having said that, I am using some real-world references, but because of the nature of the Arthurian mythos, this is set in a more semi-mythical timeless, and vaguely medieval fantasy Camelot. Also I haven't dug very deeply into Bram being Jewish because it didn't really fit into the story, but rest assured that he's still practicing, just in secret. Medieval attitudes towards Judaism were--not great--and that's something I would like to tackle at some point, but it isn't the focus of this particular story.
> 
> Very loosely inspired by Ardatli's Dale Cycle AU for the Young Avengers.
> 
> Many thanks to Kyros for helping me out with Spanish-style names!

_Lightning snaked across the sky, and thunder rolled through the land beneath Simon’s feet. He stared up the hill and trembled. He knew what lurked in the cave upon the hill. He knew that in that fiery breast lurked his death. “God,” he prayed aloud. “Please, deliver me from this evil.” But God was silent. There was only Simon, shivering in his armor as the rain poured down upon him, with his sword at his side, and his horse beneath him._

_He looked to the bottom of the hill, and there he saw the rest of the knights, all of them—he could pick out Alaric’s short form front and center; Nicholas behind him; Garrett and Gawain, Martin and Bram, Lancelot and Kay. All faceless, yet accusing. Alaric shook his head and turned away, and, one by one, all the rest followed him, leaving Simon shivering and alone, with his stomach turning over. There was no choice left for him but to turn back to the winding hill before him and urge his horse upward. At the top, a black curl of smoke twisted upward into the stormy air._

Simonus woke with a gasp, nearly striking his head on the headboard of his small feather bed. The dragon dream again. He’d had the same dream at least once a month for three years, since the day he had graduated from squire and joined the Knights of the Roundtable, from Simon to Simonus. Today, it had only been the smoke and the foreboding, but there had been times that he’d braved the lair, or the dragon itself had burst from within it. On several occasions, he had felt himself burn to death, felt the way his skin cracked and peeled and the very air in his lungs became fire.

            He was terrified. Surely, _surely_ , the dream meant something. And the most obvious meaning was that someday he would be sent on a quest against a dragon, and, when that happened, Simonus—competent archer, competent swordsman, more-than-competent minstrel and utterly incompetent courtly lover—would die. He pressed his hands into his eyes and tried to push down the swelling fear. His mother’s words floated to his ears, _Oh, my dear Simon, none of us are ever tested more than we can bear. And you, my little snub-nosed boy, will be able to bear anything, because you are amazing. I love you._ His mother and father sent him letters weekly, mostly descriptions of running their estate, many of them focusing on the exploits of his little sister, who had recently started performing experiments in the kitchen with their chef. Perhaps not entirely appropriate for the daughter of a minor noble, but she would be running an estate herself one day, and it was not so far away from her duties in that area. Even if it hadn’t been easily justified in such a manner, Simonus could not imagine his loving parents refusing Nora anything.

            _God_ , Simonus prayed again, _don’t let me let them down. I beg you._


	2. One Among You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an unexpected visitor in Camelot, Bram makes a choice, and Martin is a pain.

            Sir Abraham Luis Aguado de Campoverde had a number of close-kept secrets. Several of them he feared might be enough to cost him his life, or at least his ability to remain among the knights of Camelot. Others were much less dramatic. Of these, the most pressing at the current juncture was that he found Sir Martin almost insufferable and was spending nearly all his energy in an attempt to avoid the man. Unfortunately, Bram—as most of the court had called him since he first arrived from Spain seven years ago, seeking the fabled Camelot—was a friend of the Lady Abigail, and where the Lady Abigail seated herself, Sir Martin was never far behind.

            It was especially unfortunate, as the Lady Abigail was also close friends with the knights Alaric, Simonus, and Nicholas, all of whom Bram liked a great deal, but at times he and his closest friend, Gareth, found it necessary to absent themselves just to get a breath of Martin-less air. Tonight, however, Gareth and Simonus were absent from the meal, and Bram, who was still somewhat shy, preferred to chance Martin and gain the company of Alaric, Abigail, and Nicholas, rather than dining alone.

            He slipped onto the bench beside the three of them, reaching for bread and meat. Flicking his longish hair behind his ear, Alaric gave him a quiet nod, which Bram returned cautiously. Abigail smiled at him and gave him a cheerful wave, while Nicholas grinned in welcome. And then the grin slowly faded as Nicholas looked behind him.

            “Good evening and god bless all of you,” Martin said. Bram briefly dipped his own head down, almost far enough for his forehead to touch the grainy wood of the table. Knowing he would be expected to make room, he slid to the side. Alaric slid aside as well, yielding to necessity.

            A sudden crash of thunder rumbled through the hall, so loudly that Bram jumped in surprise. After another moment, the sound of heavy rain clattering against the rafters became audible. “What terrible weather,” Martin shouted, nearly in Bram’s ear. Since the noise would probably disguise it, Bram allowed a sigh to slip out of his lips.

            It was not just Martin’s presence, though that itself was grating. Bram found himself more disappointed than he had expected at Simonus’s absence. Though they were not boon companions, Bram found the other knight’s presence almost comforting. The way Simonus tipped his head in embarrassment when he thought he had done something particularly stupid; the idiotic grin he got on his face when he was happy—though that was sadly a rare sight, particularly in recent days—but Bram would do a great deal to see it more.

            Before Bram could fall too deeply into thoughts he knew would not be welcomed by the object of his speculation, a hollow thudding noise emanated from the door at the end of the hall. All eyes turned towards it, and two of the nearest knights, standing vigil, drew the great doors open.

            Standing silhouetted by the raging fury of the storm was a stooped figure, with a twisted staff in one hand, face hidden by a rough woolen cloak. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse and croaked, the voice of an aged crone. “I beg of you, good knights all, shelter from the rain and wind.”

            Eyes along the tables turned to the central table, where Arthur sat, with Guinevere at his side. He blinked in surprise for a moment, then nodded. “Please, good woman, enter, and partake of our hospitality.”

            The crone’s head dipped in acknowledgment, and she began to make her way across the central hallway. Partway there, she slipped on the wet rushes and fell to her knees. Bram’s first urge was to get up and help her, but a sudden surging embarrassment kept him in his seat, the fear of all eyes on him. There was silence in the hall for a long moment. Then the crone grimly pulled herself back to her feet.

            “Good knights all, and not one of you stood to help a poor old woman!” she snapped. Her voice echoed suddenly loud, and Bram realized the sound of the storm had died. “Camelot is rotten to the core,” she continued, her hidden face sweeping across the room, her voice ringing out like damnation. “All you who hide your sins beneath smiling faces, know this: one who sits among you now is a secret sodomite!”

            Bram’s heart squeezed in his chest, the breath roaring out of his lungs. It felt as if all eyes had suddenly swiveled to look at him, Abraham Luis Aguado de Campoverde, Moorish knight of Spain, and all his secrets: born as a peasant, a Jew, a sodomite. His mind spun in circles, alighting only on the prayer that had threaded its way through his waking and sleeping hours since he was a young child, _Sh’ma Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad_. Over and over again, as the buzz of startled conversation all around rose higher and higher, as each knight or lady turned to their neighbor and made shocked murmurs.

            Sweet Alaric nudged at his shoulder. “Are you all right, Bram?” he asked. “Who could have foreseen such a thing?”

            Bram shook himself out of his reverie. This, above all, was no time to display the way he felt shaken to his core. “We should not have insulted the crone,” he responded slowly. “Perhaps—perhaps she is not even telling the truth. A fitting punishment for a disorderly court, to have us all questioning each other, sowing the seeds of disunity among us.”

            “Perhaps,” Abigail replied from across the table. “I do wonder, though…” Her gaze rested somewhere far away for an instant before she shook it off and smiled. “This court is not as fine as it pretends to be, sometimes, but my friends light it from within.”

            “Any man would shine like a candle for you, my Lady,” Martin put in eagerly, and Bram rolled his eyes. At least the moment of terror was broken.


	3. The Confessional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sins are confessed, but perhaps not to the expected recipient.

When Alaric told Simonus what had transpired on the night he’d been too ill to get out of bed, Simonus wasn’t even certain what to feel. Part of him felt the shame and terror he would have felt if he had been there—but no one could suspect him of such a thing now, when he hadn’t even been there. After all, who would think there could be two such sinners in one group? Part of him was consumed with curiosity. Who could it be? Could—and Simonus felt his cheeks warming at the very thought—could it be one of the knights about whom he had occasionally had furtive, sinful thoughts? No, surely not. And would it not be worse temptation if it were?

            He did not perform well at any of the combat practices they had in the morning; in fact, he took such a crack to his skull from failing to block one of Nicholas’s enthusiastic swings that Sir Gawain himself ordered him from the field with his vision swimming. He returned to his room to rest, where he found himself unable to keep from dark, lustful imaginings. He touched the length of his prick, bringing himself to completion with the sight of some faceless knight hanging before his eyes and shivered his way into guilty dreams.

            _The storm howled about him_. _He fought his way up the rocky scree, each step a battle against raging wind. He wanted to pray, but his head was dazed and dull and empty. God had abandoned him. There was no one here but Simon, his hand clenched on his sword hilt so tight that he could feel no warmth of blood thrumming through fist and fingers._

_One more step took him to the top of the hill, and he gasped in relief for half a moment before the rocks in front of him exploded outward. Simon flung up an arm to deflect the sharp stone fragments flying for his face, and something before him roared, thunderously loud—more down, he saw the dragon._

_It reared above him, vast wings blotting out the boiling sky beyond, bright red eyes like coals shining above its graceful snout. It regarded him for a long moment with white smoke curling from its nostrils; then its mouth opened to admit a rush of flames so hot that Simon’s breath boiled in his lungs, skin peeling back, and he watched as the hand he still held in front of him withered to grey ash and floated in fragments towards the sky._

Simonus woke burning.

            The feeling lasted for only a moment, but it drove him up and over to the simple washbasin in one corner of the room, where he splashed water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The lines on his forehead stood out deeper than ever, and the circles beneath his eyes had darkened. “Forgive me, Father,” Simonus whispered. He would have to attend confession. After another moment of starting at himself in the mirror, he shook himself and betook himself down the stairs toward the church.

            Unfortunately, he had barely started his confession when he realized there was no sound of breathing from the other side. Where was the priest? Confused, he got to his feet, brushed off his knees and went around to the other side to see if he was just wrong, but no—there was no one there.

Simonus frowned, staring up and down at the empty confessional as if that would cause Father Worth to miraculously appear from whatever gulf he had vanished into. How strange. He moved back towards the entrance, but before he could leave, another voice spoke from the other side, in one long burst, as if the speaker were trying to blurt out everything at once. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned—it was I the witch spoke of last night. I have had impure thoughts of another man.”

            Simonus froze, motionless with shock. Just on the other side of the thin wooden frame separating them was the knight he’d heard of, the knight he’d so desperately—and, as he’d thought—uselessly wanted to meet. He didn’t know what to say. His heart was beating frantically in his ears.

            “F-Father?” The other knight sounded less certain now. Simonus knew he had to say _something_ , but he didn’t know what. He took a long breath, let it out.

            “Um,” he stammered, eventually. “I—I have some good news, and I also have some bad news.”

            “You’re not Father Worth. Oh, _fuck_.”

            “No—no, wait.” Simonus was pressing his hands against the grill separating them. “Please—whoever you are. I’m not the priest, but I—I have also—I’m like you.”

            Dead silence from the other side. All Simonus heard was the sound of ragged breathing. “Who _are_ you?” said the voice, but before Simonus could answer, “No—wait—perhaps it’s safer if I don’t know.”

            Simonus, who a moment before had been about to ask the same, went quiet. If neither of them knew who the other one was, maybe it _was_ safer. They could trust each other more if that were the case. Then there could be no danger that one was lying for some reason, no danger of either one slipping up even accidentally. He tried very hard not to think about whether the voice of the other knight sounded familiar. “I understand,” he said, “but—but perhaps we could correspond?” What would be a safe method? “Letters? We could write each other letters. I—just—just to talk. To say things that we can’t to others.”

            A considering sort of pause. “I would like that. I would like that very much.”

            Simonus thought fast. “We could leave our letters somewhere that no one else would think to look. Perhaps somewhere in the church—”

            “No. Not in the church.” The knight’s voice was oddly concerned, but Simonus let it go. “There’s a hollow tree about half a mile away from the castle, struck by lightning last summer—do you know it?”

            “I do.”

            “We could leave the letters there, then.”

            “Yes. Yes, I will.” And then, because he couldn’t leave it there, “who should I address them to?”

            A short pause, then the voice spoke again, and Simonus could hear the half-smile. “Blue. Address them to Blue.”

            Options flashed through Simonus’s head, until finally he blurted, “I’ll be—you can call me Baldwin.”

            “I await your letters, Baldwin.”

            Simonus pressed his hand against the wood of the grill for a long time after the breathing on the other side had faded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a bit weird for Bram to be going to confession about this, given that he's Jewish and this isn't something he'd necessarily be expected to be at confession for, but I'm going with the idea of him just being so used to the practices that he has to put on in order to be safe that he follows them almost without thinking, in addition to his own private practice.


	4. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simonus and Blue correspond, share poetry, and meet in the flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, uh, here we start with the citations and footnotes. Um. Oops? There's not a WHOLE lot in the whole thing, but just--yeah, I ended up wanting to use actual medieval poetry, so...here we are?

_Blue,_

_Strangely enough, I’ve never composed a letter such as this before. I never expected to have a friend—may I call you a friend?—who knew my whole heart and did not despise me for it. I must confess right away that, though I am a knight, I am not a courageous man. I am afraid of many things, but I always hold my head high when I can, for I would not bring shame to my family. Still, I sometimes wonder if I were sent on a quest alone, rather than those I have gone on with the other knights, how I would fare. I do not have much faith that I would distinguish myself well._

_As I said, I’ve never written a letter of this nature before. I hope I have not said too much._

_Baldwin_

            It was difficult for Simonus to leave the first letter. He found himself looking over his shoulder, walking in a circle around the tree that Blue had described. One hand ran over and over the parchment he had tucked into the front of his tunic. What if Blue had been lying? Well, that didn’t much matter—and why would he, in any case? They both had the same to lose.

            The thought of being able to share the fears with someone who might not hate him for them—who might actually understand—finally drove Simonus to suck in a huge breath and push the letter into the hollow tree, before running both hands through his hair and then quickly walking away.

            When he returned in the morning, a new letter was waiting for him.

_Dear Baldwin,_

_I’ve known such fears as you describe. There are days when I think I cannot move for the weight of my own thoughts. No one knows what lies in another man’s breast, but let me share with you the words I recall when I am afraid. I am a sometime student of troubadors, minstrels, and poets—no poet myself, and I would hesitate to call myself a scholar, but I know some verse. These words have been a comfort to me when times were very dark, so perhaps it will help you to know them as well:_

_Should someone unguilty_

_hold back from_

_longing toward heights like the moon?_

_Should he wait,_

_weaving its light across him_

_like a man stretching taut his tent skin,_

_until he acts and they hear of his action,_

_as he adds and then adds like the sea_

_to his fame?_

_By God and God’s faithful—_

_and I keep my oaths—_

_I’ll climb cliffs_

_and descend to the innermost pit,_

_and sew the edge of desert to desert,_

_and split the sea_

_and every gorge,_

_and sail in mountainous ascent,_

_until the word “forever” makes sense to me[1]._

_I am glad to have someone to write to about my doubts and fears._

_Blue_

            Simonus pressed a hand to his mouth, smoothing the parchment out on a nearby tree trunk as he read through the letter over and over again. He did know—Blue did know. He understood. Simonus could not help the tears that rose to his eyes at that thought. He spent the rest of the day murmuring to himself over and over again, “until the word ‘forever’ makes sense to me,” and even Alaric ended up impatient with him.

            “He’s out of his head,” Alaric told Nicholas. “Perhaps it’s an ague.”

            Abigail pressed a soft hand to his forehead. “He doesn’t feel too warm,” she reported, and Simonus looked up at the three of his friends in startlement.

            “Oh, ah.” He searched for an excuse. “I simply—I’ve been, um, thinking about someone.”

            “Have you found a lady?” Nicholas asked eagerly. Simonus gave Alaric a sideways glance—Alaric, safe Alaric, the only man he felt comfortable with because he’d never felt that backwards, sinful attraction to him. The man who felt—Simonus frowned faintly—like a sister to him. Alaric gave him a lopsided smile, eyes flickering briefly to Abigail.

            “I…I don’t want to talk about it,” Simonus replied, but he couldn’t stop the smile that he felt blossoming on his face.

            “Is the lady married?” Nicholas asked archly.

            “I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

            Nicholas was mouthing something at the other two, which was probably, “She’s married.” Simonus rolled his eyes, but couldn’t keep from smiling.

_Dear Blue,_

_I am no scholar nor poet myself, but I appreciate such verse as I come across. You are clearly more well-read than I. The words you sent me are beautiful; I have never heard them before, but I will cherish them. And they have already aided me. I have not written in several weeks, I know, and you will understand when I tell you why._

_We rode out—perhaps you were there, with us, perhaps not, but enough knights rode that I do not believe telling you this will destroy our anonymity—we rode with King Arthur. He would not tell us where we went, though he often consulted with Merlin. They led us to the river, where a number of stone coracles lined the banks. The king’s was called the Prydwenn._

_There is not much I can say about that voyage that will do it justice. It was very cold all the way there, and the fog so thick that we could barely see those in the boat in front of us. We fought creatures that I think must have been sent from Hell itself, pale hounds with flaming eyes whose bites left ice crystals on the flesh they tore. I spoke the words you sent to me over and over again, and I swear that they are the only reason I was able to save my friend._

            Nicholas’s face, rosy in the torchlight, his voice crying out as his sword was ripped from his hands. Simonus finding himself somehow between the hound and his friend, those terrifying jaws closing about his sword. “And I keep my oaths,” Simonus gasped, feeling the sweat beading on his brow. “ _And I keep my oaths!_ ” and somehow he had thrown the creature backwards and off the coracle.

            “Thanks,” Nicholas had gasped, and the two of them had embraced, briefly.

 

            _I won’t speak of all that transpired—if you were there, you know, and if you were not, I cannot possibly convey the end of that strange tale with my own words. I just wanted to thank you. For my courage. For my friend._

_Baldwin_

There was a great deal more that Simonus wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to say any of it. He’d already written and rewritten the letter three times, after returning from that strange voyage. In the end, he tied up the letter with a ribbon and wrapped it around an adder stone he’d plucked from the grey shore upon which they’d disembarked, adding a short postscript to that effect.

            He received a reply on the following day.

_Dear Baldwin,_

_I was one of that company. Perhaps we were even near one another. I am glad my words were able to help you and your friend. I saw more than one knight fall on that voyage; I am sure you did as well. It can be a dangerous road that we have chosen to follow, but I would not trade it, and I suspect you would not either. Since you so enjoyed the last poem that I shared with you, I enclose another that has touched me, although the subject is very different:_

_So we must be divided; sweetest, stay,_

_Once more, mine-eyes would seek thy glance’s light._

_At night I shall recall thee Thou, I pray,_

_Be mindful of the days of our delight._

_Come to me in my dreams, I ask of thee,_

_And even in my dreams be gentle unto me[2]._

_I will treasure the stone. I am afraid I have nothing to give to you but my words, but I hope they will be sufficient._

_Blue_

            Simonus kept the letter tucked within his tunic by his heart for days, taking it out and reading it by candlelight until the edges became worn and ragged, even as more and more letters were exchanged. They wrote to each other once a day, religiously; if letters were not exchanged, it was because one or the other was on a quest. Poems were a not-infrequent occurrence; many of them were written or translated into English, but both Simonus and Blue found poems in other languages. French and Latin and some similar dialects, they both knew; anything else might have threatened anonymity. Some poetry Simonus suspected had been translated, but he could not tell what the origin was in any case. And he wouldn’t have tried to decipher it, even if he could have. He would not betray Blue’s trust by pressing too hard.

            It was a few months into their correspondence that he found himself writing something he would never have expected.

_Dear Blue,_

_I know you’ve had thoughts about other men. Clearly. We would not be corresponding if you hadn’t—if we hadn’t both. But I haven’t been able to stop the questions pouring into my mind. Have you ever done more than thinking? Have you ever had a lover?_

_I hope you don’t think this question too forward. If you’d rather not answer, I understand. Since I know you enjoy poetry, I offer you this as a distraction if you’d like, although I warn you I’ve penned it with my own hand, rather than stealing it from a troubadour, so it may not be very good:_

_A storm in the sky_

_Lightning within my breast_

_To you I give this cry_

_I am like to die_

_If my sins lie unconfessed._

_Love,_

_Baldwin_

            It wasn’t until Simonus was partway through the morning’s practice and sparring with Alaric that he realized he had signed the letter, “Love, Baldwin” instead of his customary “Baldwin,” and he almost dropped his sword.

_Dear Baldwin,_

_I enjoyed your poem and your question equally. I will not lie; it is a forward question, but I find that I wish to answer you truthfully nonetheless. I have done little. There was a boy, when I was younger, with whom I—explored. I loved him, and I think he loved me, but he died. We had kissed; we had touched legs and pricks and hearts, but that is all. Since then, there has been no one else._

_No one else but you. I am still afraid, Baldwin, too afraid to reveal myself to you, but I find that I want to at least hear your voice again. There is more that I would like to do, but I do not know how to write it. Your poem is beautiful, and I, too, am like to die if my sins lie unconfessed._

_So I confess. Over these past few months, I have grown closer to you than to anyone in the past seven years. I want to meet you. I want to touch you._

_There is an abandoned cottage a few miles to the north of Camelot, in the forest. You may find it by crossing the grey stream and walking west of Falcon Rock. If you feel as I do, Baldwin, come to me there after night falls. Bring no lights and speak as little as you can, for I do not want to force you to reveal yourself either. I will wait there this night._

_If you do not come, I will understand._

_Love,_

_Blue_

            Simon’s breath caught in his throat as he fumbled the door open and then closed it behind him. He was still sore from the ride down, for he’d ridden harder than he had in his life before. His heart was in his throat for fear that Blue would not be there, but he heard soft breathing as the darkness of the little hut closed about him, and a moment later, footsteps approached him.

            He reached out blindly, whispered softly, “Blue?”

            “Baldwin?”

            “Yes.”

            A long-fingered, callused hand was slipped into his. Blue’s hand was trembling. Simon realized that his was, as well, and he reached out, blind in this darkness, but he found Blue’s face, caressing the invisible roundness. He tried not to discover an identifying characteristic, but could not help but catalogue the softness of the cheek beneath the roughness of the stubble. Still, the hair on a man’s face told him very little. For a moment, they stood like that, and then, struck by inexplicable boldness, Simon guided Blue forward so that their lips met. Blue’s hand tightened in his.

            They explored one another’s mouths for quite some time. At first, the kiss was tentative, but soon Blue grew more authoritative, pushing his tongue into Simon’s mouth and tracing it down along his lower lip. Simon tried to remain silent, but he couldn’t help the low moan that was dragged out when Blue’s teeth nipped gently at him. One of Blue’s hands landed on his waist and tightened, pulling Simon close. He could feel the other’s hardness pressing against the inside of his thigh. Unsure of whether such boldness would be welcomed, Simon slid a hand down the outside of Blue’s rough tunic, pausing with his hand on Blue’s thigh. Blue pulled back out of the kiss, but only to give a long, shuddering breath and to tug him backwards toward where Simon knew the bed must be.

            Surely, this could not be a sin. Not when it sent joy singing through Simon’s veins, so sweet that he thought tears were rising to his eyes. Not when each movement of Simon’s was mirrored by one of Blue’s. Even without being able to see each other, they were able to come together like this.

            They tumbled onto the bed, Blue trailing kisses up the hollow of Simon’s jaw. Simon groaned, clutching at Blue’s hips, and pulled the other knight down on top of him, so that their pricks were pressing into one another through the fabric of their linen pants. Blue made no sound, but a hand raked up into Simon’s hair and tightened. Then they were kissing again, desperate and uncontrolled. Heat coiled in Simon’s belly, and he rutted shamelessly against Blue. Blue’s hands slid down from his hair, carrying heat with them down Simon’s neck, his shoulders, his sides, and then they were fumbling with the fastening of Simon’s trousers. Then he paused with one hand halfway inside, as if he were afraid, as if he were asking permission.

            A strangled noise fell out of Simon’s lips, and he tugged at Blue’s hand in a desperate plea. Blue leaned forward, recaptured Simon’s mouth with his own, and freed Simon’s erection gently to press it against his own, naked skin to naked skin. He was still silent; Simon was not. His mouth opened in a broken moan, and he curled, trembling, against Blue, pushing his hips upward to get as much of the sensation as he could.

            Blue’s lips moved from his mouth to his throat, then his shoulder, and they rocked together in a rhythm that grew steadily more desperate, more insistent, as the heat built in Simon, built and built in a way it never had. His own hand had never felt like this. Nothing had ever felt like this.

            Stars burst in front of Simon’s eyes, and he set his own mouth on Blue’s shoulder, needing something to anchor himself on. His hips twitched once more, and Blue’s hand slid up and down once more, and then he was drawn over the edge and falling into a blinding whiteness. Just a moment later, and he gasped back into himself in time to hear Blue make a soft shuddering sort of noise and spill himself over their joined hands.

            After, they lay together for a while. Neither spoke, though Simon had to remind himself to stay silent. Finally, once they had drowsed together, Blue rose from the bed, then paused. He raised Simon’s hand to his lips, kissed it, and pressed something soft into it before slipping out into the darkness.

            When Simon made his own escape into the moonlight some little time later, he saw that what he held was a soft blue handkerchief.

 

[1] Shmuel Hanagid, T _ranslated by Peter Cole_

from Peter Cole, trans.,  _Selected Poems of Shmuel HaNagid_

(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996).

Copyright © 1996 by Princeton University Press.

 

[2] Untitled 1, by Yehuda Halevi, _Translated by Amy Levy_

(from the German of Abraham Geiger)

From Lady Katie Magnus,  _Jewish Portraits_  (1888;

Rptd. Freeport, NY: Books for Libraries Press, 1972).

(Also see Melvyn New, ed _., The Complete Novels and Selected Writings_

_of Amy Levy_  (Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 1993).

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The journey that Blue and Simonus talk about was inspired by an old fragmentary Arthurian poem called Preiddeu Annwfn (and ironically it ALSO inspired me to write the Merlin fic you might've noticed called The Voyage of the Prydwenn.)


	5. Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything goes to hell.

**** _Dearest Blue,_

_I do not have my own words for what we shared the previous night, or at least I cannot begin with them, so instead I will use the words of William of Aquitaine:_

_Molt jauzion mi prenc en amar_

_Un joi don plus mi vueill aizir;_

_E pos en joi vueill revertir,_

_Ben dei, si puesc, al meils anar,_

_Quar meillor n’am, estiers cujar,_

_C’om puesca vezer ni auzir[1]._

_Blue, I have never felt this way before. I know many songs besides those of the troubador of Aquitaine, and many of them cry to God or the heavens of their love, but I never believed they spoke true. I thought that the minstrels created pretty words to uplift those who listened to them, and I did not begrudge them that, though I have never had such a way with words—though, I think, dearest Blue, that you might._

_But, no, they spoke true. If anything, they did not do justice to the feelings bursting inside my chest. The touch of your hands on my face, my hands on your firm thighs and firmer prick, and the one soft noise you made as you reached your peak—I will never forget these, for as long as I live. I think, had we had any more time, I might have died of joy._

_I love you, Blue. I have never written or spoken words of love like this, but if I could you would be my lady and I your knight—or, if you would have it otherwise, I would not mind being the lady myself. I want only what you do, but I hope you want the same. I find myself praying to God that you do, and I cannot believe that I should not._

_Love,_

_Baldwin_

Simonus waited impatiently for the response. Fear and joy tangled in his heart in equal measure, the terror of rejection warring with the thought of acceptance. The thought of love, of a lover. Alaric, Abigail, and Nicholas teased him mercilessly about his supposed “lady.” All three were convinced now that he was in love with, and possibly having liaisons with, a married woman. Simonus would almost have been offended if it weren’t such a useful cover. It was probably safer to be accorded an adulterer—especially when there would be no proof of such a thing—than a sodomite.

            When he went to check for the next day’s letter, there was none. Frowning, Simonus returned to the court, where he was subdued enough that both Alaric and Abigail asked if he was feeling all right. At dinner, he picked at his food until Bram leaned across and asked whether he would have to eat it for him. Looking up, Simonus caught one of Bram’s rare smiles, and he managed to put aside his concern long enough to smile back. Quiet Sir Abraham. Simonus had an absurd urge to touch the back of his knuckles, but he restrained himself.

            “Simonus, can I speak with you?” The smile dropped off Simonus’s face at the question. Martin. Just what this day needed.

            “Martin, I’m pretty tired.”

            “I think you’ll want to talk about this. It’s about ladies and knights.”

            _Ladies and knights?_ Simonus wondered. And then his heart clenched up tight, because Martin could not know what he’d written to Blue, could not—but Martin was looking at him meaningfully, with that bland, unpleasant smile of his, and Simonus could feel his blood turning to ice in his veins.

            “Walk with me,” he said tightly, one hand clamping down on Martin’s shoulder. His friends looked up, but Simonus managed to plaster a smile on his face and shake his head, long enough to get outside of the dining hall, anyway. “What do you want?” he demanded as soon as the door had shut behind them.

            The smile on Martin’s face hadn’t wavered. “This isn’t about what I want, Simonus. It’s about what _you_ want.”

            “What I want?” Simonus echoed, trying not to give anything away, even though he knew he’d already given everything away.

            “Well, whether you want the king and his court to see the letter you wrote yesterday.” Martin was smirking slightly. “Simonus, you’re a good friend of the Lady Abigail’s.”

            “I—yes—what? Martin, you can’t. Please—if they found out—” He realized with dawning horror there was already no way he could possibly contact Blue again.

            “I’d rather not show anyone, because I wouldn’t want to upset Lady Abigail.”

            Why did he keep talking about Abigail? Simonus felt like screaming, felt like tearing out his own hair. Blue had never even seen his last letter; he never would. He might send another letter when he received nothing, but it was too dangerous for Simonus to send anything else now. He felt sick thinking that Blue might believe he had done something wrong the night they’d spent together. “What do you want, Martin?” Simonus demanded.

            “All I want is for Lady Abigail to be happy,” Martin replied, and the corners of his smile turned up a little further. “With me, I mean.”

~

 

            _Dear Blue,_

_I know you will never read this letter, but something in me cannot help but send it anyway. I’ve grown accustomed to writing to you, I suppose. And in any case, there is no mortal ear to whom I can entrust my secret but yours. Martin has found me out—found us out, but fortunately your anonymity has protected you. I am not so fortunate._

_He says that he will tell no one if I will help him win the Lady Abigail’s love for himself—and God help me, I have done my best. Surely, there can be no great harm in trying to help her view him in a favorable light—except I know she would not do so were it not for my deception._

_Oh, she laughs at his jests, sometimes, and I think she does enjoy his company at times, though God knows why. But I have seen the way Alaric looks at her, when he thinks no one is looking. I have seen how she looks back._

_Even though you will not see this, I cannot break my habit of sending you poetry that I find appropriate or meaningful._

_My Lord and Guardian, I am sick at heart._

_My rest and cure, my respite and remedy,_

_Must come from you in another life._

_I cannot live, unhappy as I am,_

_Without hardship and heartache in this life._

_When I kept peace with people around me_

_With the kindness of kinship, surrounded by strangers,_

_Their care was always a lovely reward_

_Laced with anxiety, for I never knew_

_When affection might end. What I sowed in love_

_I reaped in misgiving. Still it seems best,_

_When a man cannot finally transform his fate,_

_To accept his lot and simply endure[2]._

 

            _I fear that affection has ended for me now. And I do not know if I can endure, but can I ask Abigail to endure for me?_

_Love,_

_Simon_

_Dear Blue,_

_Today Abigail smiled at Martin. He thanked me so eagerly. I believe he hopes to be able to wear her colors when he rides out, or more. But Alaric looks more and more wretched, and Nicholas is becoming worried about him. I am becoming worried about him. And about Abigail. Martin does not know when to stop or back down._

_But what am I to do? If I try to stop him, it means my life. Perhaps my soul._

_Perhaps I deserve to lose both. I am a sodomite, after all._

_And even after all of it, I cannot help but long for your touch. Your lips upon mine. I fall deeper into sin upon every reflection._

_Love,_

_Simon_

_Dear Blue,_

_I have no words left. I cannot bear this for much longer. My days are made of fear and longing for you. Tomorrow Martin asks Abigail to wear her colors, and I am almost relieved. I have tried to help him, but if it does no good, then at least there will be an end to all of it._

_I sound so brave, but I’m more frightened than I have ever been. I cannot pray to God, for what God would not turn from a sinner like me?_

_Yet I still love you, Blue._

_I still love you_

_I still_

It was a long, grey day. Every day lately seemed grey, Bram thought morosely, since the night he’d lain with Baldwin and heard nothing from him the morning after. He’d given it three days, then written another letter, and another. All of them had been left in the tree. Finally, he’d given up. It was clear enough Baldwin wanted nothing more to do with him. And he just wished he knew what he’d done. He thought they’d both been happy after lying together; he’d thought Baldwin had seemed at least content. No words had been exchanged, true, but their touches had spoken more than words might—at least so Bram had thought. He could still feel Baldwin’s soft hair beneath his hand.

            There was something going on in the field. Bram looked up to the bright, checkered cloth, where the Lady Abigail and her friends—Alaric, Nicholas, Simonus, and, for some reason, Martin—had been having a picnic. Martin was on one knee before Abigail, whose face was turning slowly red. Alaric and Nicholas looked confused; Simonus was frankly green, as if he were about to empty his stomach, and he only grew greener as the interaction continued.

            Abigail’s face stretched into what looked like a very uncomfortable smile. She shook her head, and said something Bram could not hear. “What’s going on?” Gareth asked, leaning over Bram’s shoulder.

            “I’m not sure,” Bram replied. “It looks as if Martin is trying his luck with Abigail.”

            “Well, that’s not going to go anywhere,” Gareth laughed. “Maybe now he’ll be more subdued—he’s been utterly impossible to be around for weeks now.”

            “Yes,” Bram agreed, but for some reason his eyes kept being drawn to Simonus’s face, which was going paler and paler. But why? It didn’t make any sense. Martin’s face was crumpling now, which did, but—why did Simonus look as if he were about to faint? Bram shook his head slightly. It was none of his concern.

~

            _The storm was howling about Simon’s head, shrieking in his ear. He stood on top of the mountain this time, and the dragon was coiling around him like a vast serpent. Above him, the clouds parted, and he could see a shaft of bright sunlight peering out. There was a sensation of peace and fluttering white wings. And then the dragon struck._

_Its teeth met in Simon’s ribs, and he cried out. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before, at once burning and grinding pressure. He felt heat at his feet and looked down. Beneath him there was fire surging up from a great, bottomless pit, and the only thing stopping him from falling was the jaws of the dragon, still shaking him. Simon whimpered, clawing blindly at the immense head encompassing him, and it released._

_He had only time for one short, shocked cry before he fell._

He woke to pounding on the door, rolled to the side, and fell out of bed, landing awkwardly on the floor with a wince. Putting his hands to his head, he crouched there for a long moment before rising to his feet, already fairly certain he knew what awaited him. When he opened the door, Gareth was standing outside.

“Sir Simonus,” said Gareth. “You have been summoned to the court.”

~

            Arthur sat upon his throne, with Guinevere at this right hand, and Merlin a dark, enigmatic figure hovering behind, as he always was. Martin was kneeling before them, looking pale and worried. Several of the senior knights of Camelot were grouped in a semicircle around the area in front of the throne.

            Simonus crossed the room and knelt beside Martin before the king, his hands about the hilt of his sword. “You summoned me, Sire?” He was surprised to find that his voice didn’t shake; the words seemed to be coming from somewhere very far away.

            The king’s face was lined; his once straw-colored hair darkened and streaked with grey. Beside him, Guinevere’s mouth was drawn in a tense line. “Martin has accused you of a sin,” Arthur told Simonus, his voice holding no discernible emotion, negative or positive.

            “Yes, Sire,” Simonus whispered.

            “Do you deny it?”

            Cold, cold, cold. “No, Sire.” No sense in adding lying to what he’d done, especially not when Martin must have shown them the letter.

            Arthur made no sound for a long moment. Then he turned to the knights surrounding the throne—Simonus was obscurely glad that at least none of his close friends were here, other than Gareth, who stood near the back with a twisted expression of pity on his face. “What are your thoughts, my council?” Arthur asked.

            “For sodomy, death,” answered a young, white-clad knight immediately, and Simonus flinched. “Death to save his immortal soul.”

            “Simonus is a brave knight,” Gawain put forth almost as swiftly. “Since when is the punishment for loving death?”

            “Camelot must not be seen to be weak,” countered his brother Agravaine. “Had he not been so publically apprehended, it might be less serious—”

            “My lord.” Guinevere leaned forward, pale to the lips. “Do you seriously make the argument that if the sin is private, it is no sin?”

            Arthur’s eyes swept across the gathered knights. “So there is no consensus?” he asked.

            And then the knights parted as a tall figure Simonus had only seen a few times pushed his way forward. “Let him prove himself,” said Lancelot. The rising buzz of chatter went still.

            “What do you mean?” asked Arthur, eyes flickering from Lancelot’s face to Guinevere’s and then out to Simonus.

            “He admits he has committed sodomy, but if the mortal court cannot judge it, then leave it to God’s judgment,” Lancelot explained. “Send him on a quest, Sire, and if he dies, then that is his execution. If he does not, then surely God is with him.”

            Agravaine smirked. “Or he has a good sword arm,” he murmured. “I hear Simonus is one of the more competent knights.”

            The white-clad knight shot him an icy look. “I am willing to let the Lord judge him,” he said frostily.

            “So be it, then,” Arthur said, calmly. “Sir Simonus, it has come to my attention that there is a knight ravaging the southernmost part of Camelot. I had not yet decided who to send, but it seems that it is to be you.”

            Nodding slowly, not looking at Martin, Simonus licked dry lips. “Yes, Sire.”

 

[1] Very happily, I begin to love

a joy from which I will have more pleasure;

and, since I want to be back to joy

I well ought to, if I can, aim for the best;

since I love the best, without doubt,

that one could see or hear.

[2] Resignation B: The Exile’s Lament. _The Complete Old English Poems_ , Translated by Craig Williamson, 2017, University of Pennsylvania Press.


	6. The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Simonus faces the Dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains references to rape against original female characters and some rather graphic violence.

Bram picked at his food. A pall seemed to be hanging over the dining hall this evening. There had been a meeting of Arthur’s court earlier, and Martin had slunk out with his tail between his legs, but no one seemed to know anything else. For once, Martin wasn’t talking. Gareth might know, but Gareth had been occupied with something, and Bram was once again eating with Abigail, Alaric, and Nicholas. Alaric’s hair had gotten so long it was trailing in his soup, and Abigail offered him a ribbon to tie it back with, which he accepted.

            Perhaps five minutes into the meal, someone knocked on the door, and Bram went still and quiet, remembering the last unexpected interruption. There was no storm today, however, and it was no old crone. Instead, it was a traveling troubadour, wearing a gaudy outfit of green and yellow. “If it pleases you, sir knights, I bear a message,” he said, bowing.

            “You are most welcome here, good minstrel,” Guinevere told him. “To whom is the message addressed?”

            “It is—that is, I was paid to deliver the message in public, my Lady, if you do not mind.”

            Guinevere looked startled and glanced sideways at Arthur, who gave a minute nod. She nodded to the minstrel. “You may continue.”

            He gave her a long, low bow, and then turned to the hall. “Blue,” said the minstrel to the massed crowd. “These words are sent to you by Simonus.” Bram felt himself going weak in the knees. So—Baldwin had been—shy, beautiful Simonus, who kept his eyes downcast and ran his hands through his hair so often that it always looked as if a particularly persistent wind was reserved for him alone, from whom it was possible to jerk sudden, surprised laughter at any time. But why—they had agreed that they would not reveal themselves—why would Simonus—

            “By the time these words reach you, I may no longer live in this world,” the minstrel chanted clearly, and Bram felt his heart freeze in his chest. “My sins have been laid bare by one who discovered a letter I tried to send to you the night after our dalliance, and the king has sent me on a quest of penance from which I do not expect to return. Please, know this: I have many regrets, but I cannot regret my love for you, even if it costs me my life. You have been the light in my life these many months, and I am so sorry you never received the letter in which I first confessed that love. I love you, Blue, I love you, and I ride with your colors at my breast. _Pos de chantar m’es pres talentz, farai un vers don sui dolenz: mais non serai obedienz, en Camelot[1]._ ”

**~**

The land was blackened and burned, and black smoke bled upwards into the looming thunderclouds. Simonus’s mare was understandably nervous, although Simonus suspected she was not more nervous than he was. He sighed and leaned against her flank, staring across the ruined landscape. “Kill the Dragon,” Arthur had told him, pointed the location out on a map, and now here he was. And he was definitely going to die.

            There was an inn still standing near the edge of the swathe of destruction. Simonus made for it because it was the only standing piece of architecture he could see for miles. The innkeeper looked up when he entered, a grim-faced old man. “I’m sorry, my Lord, we have little to provide you with. The Dragon and his knights have taken the bulk of our supplies.”

            “His knights?” Simonus repeated in confusion.

            “Those that follow his banner,” replied the innkeeper. “A black dragon rampant on a green field.”

            “He calls himself a knight errant,” spat an angry voice to Simonus’s left. “But he is no true knight.”

            A knight? Simonus could still feel the massive jaws from his dreams meeting in his torso. “So…he’s not a real dragon?”

            “He sacks, burns, and kills indiscriminately,” said the innkeeper. “What else would you accord him?”

            But for the first time, Simonus could feel a tiny stirring of hope. Perhaps he had a chance after all. Perhaps his atonement was not impossible.

            After a long moment to breathe, Simonus put a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Well, rampaging beast or rampaging man, I am sent to put a stop to him,” he said. “If you have nothing for me to purchase, I understand, but have you at least a well to draw some water from? Both my horse and I are parched from travel.”

            The innkeeper’s craggy face melted into a surprised smile. “Well, you’re welcome here, and I’ll draw you up some water from the well. If you’ve need of bread, I can spare you a bit, and there’s hay for your horse.”

            “It would be appreciated.” Simonus drew out his coin purse.

            After he had paid and received the supplies, he readied to leave again, mind still whirling. “Thank you,” he told the innkeeper.

“No, thank _you_ ,” said the old innkeeper, nodding towards the window. “Those two—Eleanor and Margaret. The Dragon had both of them. We were lucky. He didn’t kill anyone, and he left the inn standing when he moved on.” Simonus stared in the direction indicated, feeling a faint sickness rising in his gut.

Two girls sat on the window-ledge, both of them staring out at the grey horizon. Their hands were touching very lightly, just the tips of their pinky fingers. Simonus would have guess they were about sixteen, obviously related. One had blond hair, the other brown. The blond-haired girl’s face was set and she was the one who had spoken earlier; the brunette’s was red and swollen with crying. Simonus thought of Nora, and his breathing sped up.

            “I’ll—I’ll do my best,” he croaked, but he suddenly needed to leave. There was a tightness in his chest making it difficult to breathe.

            “Good sir knight!” the blond girl called as he reached the door, and he paused, looking back.

            “Yes, my Lady?”

            “Where do you go?”

            “I—I go to try and kill the Dragon.”

            “When you’ve killed him, bring his head back for us to see!”

            Simonus felt his mouth twitch up a little. “Yes, my Lady, I will. You have my word.”

            “Thank you.”

            _God,_ he prayed as he pushed the door open. _Let me succeed in my quest. If not for me, then for them._

~

            “I demand single combat!” Simonus shouted, raising his sword high. He was fairly certain that he was trembling. But no knight, not even one as callous and destructive as this one, could refuse single combat. Even if he were so inclined, he would lose his followers immediately.

            The Dragon stood slowly from his seat at the laden table. Simonus had arrived approximately at suppertime, it seemed. No guards had been posted at the huge gates of the castle at the bottom of the hill, whose gates had been burst open like a cracked oyster. And now Simonus stood here, breathing hard, sword clutched in his sweaty hand. Ready to fight. Ready to die.

            The man rising to meet his challenge was immense. Simonus wasn’t sure if he was truly twelve feet tall, or if Simonus’s own brain was misparsing his height from fear, but he was certainly a good deal taller than skinny Simonus, a proper mountain of a man. _And if you die, you die, and expiate your sins that way_.

            His mind was buzzing, and his body felt cold and far away as they withdrew to the courtyard. As Simonus passed beneath the lintel, a rattling boom of thunder shook the fortress to its foundations, and he felt what little blood remained in his face drain away at the gathering clouds above them. This truly was it, then, the moment he’d dreamed about: the moment of his death.

            They stood at opposite ends of the courtyard in ominous silence. Simonus was concentrating so hard on steadying his rapid breathing that he almost didn’t hear the shout heralding the beginning of combat. Only after the Dragon had been striding toward him for a second or two did he manage to control himself enough to start running towards the other knight. As they reached one another, the Dragon raised his massive sword above his head and brought it down. Simonus barely managed to get his shield up in time. Steel clashed against steel. The impact sent pain shivering down Simonus’s arm. Simonus scrabbled to the side and managed to get himself back to his feet.

            The Dragon fought like a beast, huge thudding swings that could have knocked Simonus’s head off if they’d connected with it. He barely seemed to remember that he had a shield, but Simonus was too busy trying to avoid having a limb chopped off to press that advantage. He made no sound, and Simonus could almost have believed that dark helm to be empty, even though it swung to track his movements.

            Another ominous rumble from the sky was all the warning he had before the heavens opened, and sheets of rain sluiced down upon the two fighters. The sudden addition of heavy precipitation to the scene cloaked the Dragon’s form, turning it from a massive but ultimately human outline to a vast menacing silhouette.

            Dodging to avoid a particular swift and vicious attack, Simonus’s legs slid out from under him in the newly-formed mud beneath his feet. He tumbled to the ground, landing at an awkward angle against the side of his shield, his breath forced out in a pained grunt. Trying to get back up, he found that his shield was stuck, unable to be dislodged, and he had to abandon it or face immediate decapitation as the Dragon swung again. Two more sidesteps, another swing, and then a sudden bright white glint of sunlight on metal as the sun briefly peeked out from behind the clouds in time to alert Simonus that the Dragon’s sword was traveling directly at his face.

            He had no time to dodge, this time; instead, he flung up his own sword in a desperate parry. The impact nearly drove him into the ground; he could feel the mud sucking at his knees. The Dragon pressed down and down, and Simonus’s muscles strained with the effort of protecting himself. It was like a mad game of arm-wrestling, only instead of a swift twinge of pain and a moment of stinging knuckles, the end result of this contest would be far deadlier.

            His own sword was perilously close to his face. Simonus grunted, straining, as the Dragon pressed his advantage. He was going to die. He would die here, without ever knowing Blue’s love again, a sinner destined for the fires of damnation, fallen from grace. How could he have ever thought God might be on the side of someone like him?

            But he could still hear Blue’s soft little moan of pleasure echoing in his ear. He did not know whether Blue would have welcomed him as Simonus, did not know what time they might have shared together if his letter and his love had not been stolen him from Martin, but he could still remember the eager noises dropping from Blue’s lips, could still feel the way Blue had held him tighter and tighter as they both mutually approached their peak. Blue had wanted him, and Simonus had desired him as well. Whether they’d both loved one another, Simonus couldn’t know, but he knew at least that their union had been willing. Beautiful. He thought of the two girls in the inn, their pinched faces. _Will you let this brute walk away with the right of it?_

            Simonus let his knees give way and rolled to the side. The Dragon’s sword connected with the ground with a squishy thump. Simonus turned his roll from a horizontal one into a vertical spin, and before the Dragon could free his sword from the constraining muck, Simonus struck him full across the side with his heavy broadsword. A moment more—the Dragon knelt stunned—and Simonus was on his feet again and behind his enemy.

            He paused for no more than half a second, and then, still caught up in his momentum, feeling a weird surge of strength, he thrust forward, putting his full weight behind the blow.

            His sword sheared through the back of the Dragon’s armor as if it were paper, then through the flesh within, so easily that Simonus stumbled forward two steps before he could catch himself. He was swearing breathlessly as he yanked the blade back, covered in bright red blood that steamed in the wet air. He danced backward again a few paces in anticipation of another attack, but none was forthcoming. After a long moment, Simonus realized that the Dragon had slumped forward, motionless and limp, held up only by his own shield.

            Gasping for breath, half in disbelief, Simonus stripped off his helmet, thinking to let the hot rain wash across his forehead and down the back of his neck. There was no rain anymore, though. It was sunlight that met his dazed, blinking eyes, sunlight shining from behind the dark thunderclouds like a beacon or a promise. Turning in a wide, dizzy circle, his eyes were caught by the horizon, where a bright multihued rainbow spread from one side of the sky to the other.

~

            His journey back to the inn was swift, as if even his mare’s exhaustion had been wiped away by Simonus’s triumph. Simonus tried not to think too hard about what he had in his saddlebags, but he’d promised. And they deserved it.

            When he strode into the inn, the innkeeper looked up, but other than one swift smile, Simonus ignored him and turned to the two girls still sitting in the window. So little time had passed, really. He knelt in front of the two girls. Eleanor—the blond one—gave him a confused look, while Margaret was weeping again.

            “I’ve brought what you asked for,” Simonus told them quietly. “Do you want it, or shall I take it away again?”

            Eleanor’s face went from puzzled to lit with an inner fire; Margaret’s sobs died down a little. “Let us see,” Eleanor told him.

            Giving a jerky nod, Simonus removed the squishy bundle from his pack, wrapped in a cloth that it had soaked through with red blood and unwrapped it, holding out the Dragon’s severed head. Eleanor didn’t flinch.

            “There, look,” she said. “Look, Margaret.” Margaret raised her head, and her eyes grew rounder and rounder.   “You see?” Eleanor said softly. “He’s dead. Dead and in pieces. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

            Margaret scrubbed at her eyes with her sleeve, but her breathing was calming into a more natural rhythm. “Thank you,” she said to Simonus. “Thank you.”

            Even if it hadn’t been his salvation as well, Simonus would have done it all again, just to hear the way her voice steadied.

 

[1] As the desire to sing takes hold of me, I will make a song about my sorrow; I will no longer be a servant of love in Camelot— _adapted from a poem by William of Aquitaine_


	7. Rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Simonus returns to Camelot.

            It was early morning when Simonus returned to Camelot, exhausted and barely able to keep riding. He left his tired mare in the stables, with promises from the stablehands to see that she was rubbed down, fed, and watered, and then made his way back to the castle, not really certain where to go.

            “Well done, Sir Simonus,” someone said, and he looked to the side to see that Merlin was sitting tucked away in one of the higher window-slits, dark hood pulled forward to shadow his face.

            “Um,” said Simonus awkwardly. “Thank you?” He had barely exchanged any words with the court sorcerer.

            Bright eyes gleamed from beneath the cloak. “You’ve proved yourself. Word reached Camelot yesterday that the Dragon was slain. So. God is on your side, no matter what that upstart Galahad has to say about the matter. You are free to be as you are.” His head tilted back, letting the light fall on the lower half of his face. Pale and beardless, he looked younger than Simonus had realized, and one side of his mouth was tilted up. “Thank you from myself and another. And there may be more in Camelot who will salute your bravery than you know. I expect we’ll have a rash of knights asking for quests in the next few weeks.”

            “But—I am still—I am still a sodomite?” Simonus hesitated, and now Merlin leaned forward, and actually flung the cloak back.

            “And God has made it plain that that is no sin, for you, at least. Others will want to follow the path that you’ve laid out for them. So, as I said: well done, Sir Simonus.”

It was really all right. He had proven himself, not only in the eyes of God, but of men. Simonus sucked in a breath, trying to understand the new freedom rising before him. There were tears rising to his eyes. He wished—he wondered—would Blue know? Would Blue come to him now?

            He couldn’t think about Blue, not yet. With another nod and a murmur of incoherent words, he fled, back to his chamber, where he fell into his bed and slept for four hours and dreamed of a dead dragon and a clearing storm and a knight standing beside him whose face he could not yet see. When he rose again, it was close to noon, and, not knowing what else to do, he headed down to the dining hall for the midday meal.

            Faces swiveled in his direction, and there was some scattered clapping. Alaric, Abigail, and Nicholas rose as one to greet him, with bright smiles on their faces. Alaric’s face, especially, was transformed. “You did it, Simonus, you did it!” he cried gleefully.

            Simonus took two steps towards them, and then sank to his knees before Abigail. “Lady Abigail,” he said hoarsely. He had had a good deal of time to think about what had transpired between the two of them while he was riding back. “I owe you the greatest of apologies. I tried—I tried to take away your choice, to ensure my own safety. I am sorrier than I can say.” Sodomite or not, he could not wish himself accorded a hero when the weight of what he had done still lay heavy on his conscience.

            Abigail looked at him quietly. “Thank you,” she said, then held out a hand. “I’m glad you didn’t die,” she told him. “And I’m still a little angry at you. But I—do understand. Your choice was taken from you as well. And in the end it’s all turned out all right.”

            He gave her a trembling smile and got to his feet. Alaric moved to open his mouth, but someone else inserted himself between them before he could. Martin was staring down at his shoes, and his face was a dull red. He seemed to be trying to say something, but after a moment shrugged and just managed to blurt out, “Good job, Simonus. I’m—glad you triumphed.”

            Simonus froze, with absolutely no idea how to handle this latest development. He tried to open his mouth to find some appropriate response, like, _You tried to have me executed, I don’t want to talk to you_ , but he couldn’t quite get the words to come out.

            “Sir Martin of Addison!” Simonus turned, startled, to see Bram striding towards them. He looked different this morning, different like Simonus felt, with a strange, new confidence buoying up each step. Martin seemed to sense it, too; he took a half step backward, one hand falling to his sword.

            “Bram?” he said uncertainly.

            Bram drew himself to his full height. “My name is Abraham Luis Aguado de Campoverde,” he said, and Simonus felt a ripple of something stir between his loins at the sudden commanding sense of Bram’s presence. “And you have wronged me.”

            “Wh-What?” Martin asked, sounding almost bewildered.

            “You have taken that which was most precious to my heart and attempted to destroy it,” Bram said steadily, and his eyes flickered suddenly to Simonus, who froze. Bram _._ _Bram_? “And I would show the court that I have God’s will upon my side.”

            “I don’t understand,” Martin said uneasily.

            “Simonus.” Bram turned to him. “You have fulfilled your quest, and you have proven in the eyes of God and this court that you can no longer be called sinner. Now I ask the chance to prove that I have been wronged. Will you let me wear your colors when I ride out?”

            “I—” Simonus said, and then his throat dried up. There were tears welling up in his eyes. He took another deep breath and another. “Yes, of course. Of course, Bl—Bram.”

            “Wait,” Martin cut in. “ _You_?”

            Bram turned, his face perfectly calm. “Do you have anything further to say, Sir Martin?”

            “I—I—” Martin seemed to sense he might want to stop talking, and he closed his mouth.

            “I’ll see you on the field of battle,” Bram told him, then turned to Simonus. “Are you disappointed?”

            “To see your face in sunshine? Never.” Simonus reached out and cupped Bram’s cheek with his hand. “You are my Blue, and I your Baldwin.”

            Bram took both of his hands and raised them to his lips. “My Simonus. My love.”

            “Your Simon,” Simonus told him. “I was baptized Simon.”

            Bram gave him a lopsided smile. “And do you want to call me Abraham Luis every time you speak to me?”

            “I would call you whatever you wanted,” Simonus answered truthfully. “Especially if it meant that I could kiss you.”

            “Let me prove my case as you have proved yours, on the field of honor, and then you may kiss me as much as you like.”

            “I will wait with bated breath,” Simonus breathed, his hands tightening about Bram’s. “Let me fetch you something of mine to wear at your breast.”

            “Eat something first, love,” Bram reminded him, and Simonus felt his cheeks growing warm.

            “Oh, yes, I suppose that’s a good idea.”

            Alaric was waiting at the table when they arrived. “Simonus,” he said haltingly. “I—you’ve given me the courage to do something I thought I never would.” He looked down at his feet, then up again. “I’m going to ask King Arthur for a quest.”

            “A quest? What for?”

            Alaric’s face went a little blank, and he glanced sideways, questioningly, at Abigail, before his chin firmed up. “I am not a man,” he said, with a soft sigh. “I have never been a man.”

            Simonus frowned. “But I’ve seen you without your armor?” he said questioningly, a little haltingly, trying to understand.

            Alaric nodded, a little jerkily. “I don’t know?” he said. “Perhaps I was cursed in the womb. But I _know_ —” pressing a hand to his chest, “—just as you know that you are not for women, I know that I _am_ one. And you’ve never been attracted to me, have you?”

            “I—suppose that’s true.” Simonus tilted his face to one side, looking at the long, light hair framing his friend’s face, and then he smiled. Strange, to find your perceptions had been wrong for so long, strange to have to shift your frame of reference so profoundly, but no stranger than for Alaric to find that everyone regarded her as a man when she was not. “Then I’m glad you’ve told me, and I’m sure you’ll finish your quest much faster than I finished mine. You’ve always been the competent one.”

            The fear that had been rising in her face seemed to settle, and her eyes crinkled up as she smiled. “Simonus, you’ve always been my dearest friend,” she said. “Thank you.”

            “No, thank _you_ for always being there when I needed you.” He reached out and took her hand. “I believe in you, Alaric.”

            “Oh, um.” She shuffled. “Could you call me Leah?”

            “I suppose that is a more appropriate name for a woman, isn’t it?” Simonus bent gently to kiss her forehead. “I believe in you, _Leah_.”

~

            Bram unseated Martin in under five minutes, to a roar of applause from the audience, and sideways smiles sent from Abigail, Alaric, and Nicholas to Simonus. As soon as he was off the field, Simonus was on him, flinging his arms around his neck, though he stopped short of actually bringing their lips together in public, uncertain of whether Bram would welcome it. They looked into one another’s eyes for a long moment, and then Bram closed the distance between them, and Simonus’s eyes slid shut as Blue’s lips were pressed against his once more.

            “ _God_ ,” he whimpered, after they finally broke apart. “I did not think I would ever taste your lips again.”

            “Or I yours.” Bram held him close, one hand stroking tenderly through his hair. “When I heard the message you’d sent me—I feared you’d gone to your death. When I heard you had triumphed, I thanked—I prayed.”

            “I did, too. Bram—” he paused, anxiety twisting through his stomach, his heart beating rapid-fire-fast in his chest, but when Bram gave him a tender, questioning look, Simonus found the courage to continue, “Bram,” he murmured, “Share my bed?”

            “All right.” Bram was smiling now, almost laughing. “Oh, and Simonus—”

            “Yes?”

            “It was very clever. King Baldwin, the Leper, like Simon [1]?”

            “Oh—ah—yes.”

            “But you’re not, you know.” Bram kissed him again. “No sinner, nor cast out. You’re the bravest knight in Camelot, and everyone— _everyone_ —knows it.”

            “Even me,” Simonus laughed, and was surprised to find that it was true.

_Fin._

 

           [1] [Baldwin IV of Jerusalem](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baldwin_IV_of_Jerusalem) was known as "the Leper King."  Simon uses the name for the connection to the biblical figure of "[Simon the Leper](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_the_Leper)."  I chose not to keep "Jacques" partly on the grounds that I wasn't certain whether the saying was old enough for the setting, partly because there is a sort of old Christianity slant to this fic (cards on the table, though, I'm personally more Jewish than anything else though the half of my family that's from Britain used to be Christian), and partly for the fact that Simon does think of himself as deserving of being shunned, at least at first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been a blast. Thanks to everyone for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. And, yes, the bit in the beginning is a faint nod to the BBC adaptation of Merlin.


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